Page 91 of Famous Last

“Hey, before I forget. Something else happened while I was away,” he said.

“There’s more?” asked Spencer, horrified.

“Don’t worry, this is something good. At least, I hope so. My mother sent me an email. She owns a small apartment overlooking the Thames in Rotherhithe—got the place in the divorce settlement—with a terrace on the first floor, above the river footpath. The apartment is usually rented out to overseas professionals. But the last tenants were European and moved back home in June. She’s had the unit refurbished but it’s been sitting empty ever since. Anyway, she wrote and asked if I wanted to move in. As luck would have it, my father’s found a potential buyer for his South Ken apartment and he’s asked me to move out. And then I got to thinking that Rotherhithe is barely twenty minutes by train into London Bridge, where you’ll be working next year. I guess, what I’m trying to say is—”

“Yes!” said Spencer, rolling on top of Marshall, kissing him playfully. “If you’re asking me if I want to come and live with you, then the answer is yes. Of course, yes.”

Marshall’s laughter rumbled through his chest.

“Do you think Her Royal Highness will be okay with only a terrace?”

“Only a terrace? Are you kidding me? She’s a reluctant house cat right now. The number of times I’ve seen her sitting by the window, staring through the glass at birds and other cats, pining to be outside. If you think she likes you now, wait until we move in together. She’ll never leave you alone.”

Marshall’s sigh came out deep and contented, and he shifted Spencer around to spoon him, an arm wrapped around his waist.

“Can I ask you one question?” asked Spencer. “And then I promise to let you sleep.”

“Anything.”

“What colour is your mother’s hair?”

“Didn’t I tell you? She’s a platinum blonde. Naturally, too. It’s always been her trademark. Even in her seventies now, her hair is amazing. She says it’s her best feature, although I think she underestimates her many other qualities. I got Dad’s gene there. My hair is the same colour as his.”

“I see. And her hair’s never been red?”

“Red? Good lord, no. She’d never dream of dying her hair. Besides, she’s never been a fan of redheads,” said Marshall, and gently elbowed Spencer. “Where on earth is all this coming from?”

“Nothing,” said Spencer, smiling to himself. “But I’d really like to meet her one day.”

Marshall kissed Spencer beneath the ear, then settled back into the pillow.

“I would love nothing more than to introduce you. And the weird thing is, I already know she’ll warm to you. I bet you become the best of friends.”

“In the meantime, after having walked out of another major incident unscathed, you’re going to need to survive Christmas Day with my family.”

Marshall chuckled, his body vibrating along Spencer’s spine.

“Okay, Spence. Enough drama for one day. Now go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Marshall.”

“Good morning, Spence.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Since Marshall’s return, Spencer had agreed to install himself—and Tiger—into Marshall’s South Kensington apartment. Amid all the new jargon dropping into everyday life, such as lateral flow and polymerase chain reaction—PCR—tests, new government regulations had meant people creating their own support bubbles and Marshall’s fully functional and, more importantly, fully networked apartment made more sense. With little else to do, Spencer was finally able to answer calls or text messages as soon as they arrived, even confirming to his mother that he would still be bringing a guest home for Christmas.

On Christmas Eve they drove to Bournemouth, relieved to be out of the confines of the London flat, speeding south down the almost empty motorway. Marshall appeared in his element driving, and Spencer didn’t offer to share the burden, because he knew Marshall would refuse. The journey in Marshall’s comfortable sports car flew by all too quickly.

“You cannot be serious?” said Marshall, leaning forward, his mouth dropping open.

Marshall slowed his BMW to a crawl as they approached the spectacle. Next to him, Spencer had been pointing out his parent’s bungalow. Not that he’d needed to bother.

“In all fairness, my brother did warn me,” said Spencer. “I just didn’t imagine…”

Who could have? Garrett—bored to tears at home—had phoned him the day before about their father, usually the more conservative of his parents where the festive season wasconcerned, going all-out this year to brighten up the exterior of their pink-fronted bungalow. In a fit of seasonal madness, according to Garrett, their father had decided to ‘put a bit more effort in this year’ as a trial run before the arrival of his grandchild. Nobody could have expected the result. Giant red- and white-striped candy canes decorated the pink facade, fake snow covering the whole front roof. In the garden, a full-sized smiling snowman and laughing Father Christmas stood side-by-side next to a sleigh and a fifteen-plus-foot decorated Christmas tree, with huge colourful foil-wrapped presents beneath. Every surface and window frame had been illuminated in various arrangements of Christmas lights, banishing any hope of a good night’s sleep. And those were only the big-ticket items. Little touches here and there came to life as they approached. Snow White on the roof, directing the seven dwarfs, all in colourful outfits with sacks on their backs, climbing the drainpipes. A row of miniature reindeer standing next to the chimney stack, one with its nose replaced by an illuminated red bulb. Mickey and Minnie sitting together on the guttering, arms around each other. Too much, Spencer thought, when he initially saw the display.

Except the end effect did not come across as tacky at all but perfectly befitted the fairy-tale aura of the bungalow facade. Context, thought Spencer, everything in context.

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